


Happily

by rabidchild67



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Disney, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5563372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s bad enough Zach suddenly finds himself in some sort of crazy Disney cartoon reality, but it looks like he’s also the villain. Goddamn typecasting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Ow,” Zach thinks. He sits up and immediately regrets it; his head pounds and a wave of nausea overcomes him so strongly he feels like he might pass out again. He raises a hand to his head and winces at the painful lump he encounters there.

“What the hell happened last night?” he moans out loud. He opens his eyes and fights to focus in the dimly-lit room. He freezes as he realizes he’s not in his own bedroom. “What the hell?”

The bed he’s in is large enough to accommodate five adults. It is sumptuously appointed with bolsters, what feels like a feather bed beneath him, a multitude of pillows, and a canopy so high he can’t see the top of it in the dim light. Suspended from it are miles of thick brocade fabric curtains as well as gossamer-thin sheers, all of which have been drawn closed around the bed. The duvet looks like it cost a fortune—dark and richly embroidered with strange and fanciful creatures. “Not too overdone,” he mutters as he pushes it all off himself and hauls himself to the edge of the bed. It takes a few seconds for him to find a break in the curtains surrounding him, but when he pushes them aside there is finally light filtering through.

The quality of the light is… strange. It renders everything flatter, somehow. He looks at his hands and they seem blunter—unrefined to his eyes. He blinks to clear his vision, but it doesn’t help.

“Are you finally up, then?” a voice asks from somewhere out in the vast bedroom he’s found himself in.

“Excuse me?”

He hears a THUMP followed by a slight flapping sound. Across the room, a bird of prey has landed on the floor and is walking toward him, its talons making skritch-skritch-skritching sounds on the floor. Zach’s no ornithologist, but he thinks it might be a falcon, or a hawk. Its eyes look angry, or calculating maybe, as it looks at him.

“I apologize, Highness, I mean to say the morning has progressed much past the usual time of your waking—an odd occurrence.” The bird bows gracefully as it speaks, as if delivering an obeisance.

Zach retreats behind the bed’s curtains. “Are you talking to me?!” he says, panic rising in his chest. He squints further at the bird, noticing its coloring, the simple lines of its body, its uncomplicated shading. “Are you a— a cartoon?!” he nearly shrieks, hysterical.

The bird looks down at itself and fluffs its feathers. “Your Highness, I don’t think now is the time to be insulting,” it says in a British accent. “The preferred term is graphic representation. And besides, you’re just the same as I.”

Zach looks down at himself and really _sees_ the muted character to his skin tone for what it actually is, notes how his clothes, hands, and other features are edged with thin, black lines. His vision begins to swim. “Am I a cartoon?” he says in a whisper before fainting dead away.

\----

“Highness? Highness!”

Zach wakes up on the floor, the bird standing on his chest fanning his face with an outstretched wing. Up close, its beak looks formidable and its taloned feet clutch at Zach’s clothes urgently; he also notices it is wearing an odd chain around its body that nestles perfectly across its chest, undisturbed by its movements.

“Highness.”

“I’m still here?” Zach closes his eyes tight, wishing fervently for this fever-dream-psychotic-break-or-whatever-it-is to end. _Think, Zachary! Where were you last night? What happened?_ He has a vague impression of going out somewhere, but who with and what they’d done escape him.

_Think!_

“Look, I don’t mean to pile on, as you’re clearly having some sort of existential crisis,” the bird says in a voice that reminds Zach of Graham Norton’s, “but we _do_ have a lot of preparations to get through if you are going to be wed this evening.”

“What?” Zach sits up abruptly, dislodging the bird. All confusion and distress at his change in circumstances is forgotten in light of this new development. “To who?”

“Whom,” the bird corrects him. Zach gives him a dark look. “Your princess,” it adds hurriedly.

“My princess? I don’t have a princess.”

“You do as of yesterday. Now get up off the floor, you need to get dressed. There are particulars about the ceremony your father will want to discuss with you.” He turns about and hops across the room with an air that makes it clear Zach is to follow him.

“My father?”

“The King? Just how hard did she hit you last night?”

“Who hit me?”

“The princess. Do keep up.” The bird reaches a doorway into what turns out to be a large dressing room or closet. It’s lined with alcoves inside which are arrayed dozens of sumptuous-looking clothes in a variety of fabrics and cuts. Zach fingers a few of the jackets with interest, noticing bemusedly the decided lack of variety in color. “Are all of these black?”

“Some of them are midnight blue,” the bird offers helpfully. It’s somehow gotten itself up on one of the shelves and picks up a shirt, holding it out delicately. “Perhaps this one?”

Zach takes the shirt and pulls it on; it’s made of the finest silk and fits him perfectly. He takes a little too long lacing up the neckline and figuring out the fastenings on the cuffs—he was never one for period dressing. Next is a change of pants, boots, and a beautiful, black-on-black embroidered doublet which also fits him to a tee.

“Is there a mirror or something?” he muses, spotting one at the far end of the chamber as he does. As he approaches, he’s nearly brought up short when he sees himself reflected back. Cartoon Zach is slender and long of limb, with large hands and wide shoulders. His pale face is familiar yet disturbingly different; his hair is longer than before, swept back from his brow and curling over his collar. His eyebrows, unsurprisingly, are his most prominent feature. They arch at careless angles above wide-set, dark eyes and appear to have a personality all their own. He raises one as he’d taught himself to do for his role as Spock, and it crawls across his forehead like a particularly lissome caterpillar. His mouth quirks to the side in a cocky way; it’s not unattractive, at least he doesn’t think so, but there’s something different about the way this face is made, something alien that disquiets him.

A creaking sound to his left catches his attention and he looks over; the falcon has kicked open a wooden box. Inside, resting atop black velvet, is a circle of gold. “Your diadem, my lord,” the bird says, giving a little bow.

Of course—if he’s royalty then he’d have to wear some kind of crown. Zach lifts it out of its box and regards it carefully. It is a very simple coronet, heavy for its size, with a delicate patterning all along it that looks familiar though he can’t place it. He lifts it to look at the front, where the two ends come together to intertwine in a V-shape. He blinks at it in surprise to realize one of the ends is a serpent’s head, the other its tail; the pattern he’d discerned are its scales. The falcon clears its throat and Zach dons the circlet hurriedly, making sure the downward point is centered on his forehead. The snake’s onyx eyes appear to be watching him; it’s unsettling. He looks away from the mirror.

“Very princely,” the bird observes.

Given the fact it’s a falcon, Zach can’t discern if it’s being sarcastic or not. “Thank you…” he says, realizing he doesn’t know its name or the nature of their relationship, “my friend.”

“Friend?” the bird replies in a shocked tone of voice. Its manner relaxes somewhat and it puffs up its feathers. “Really, Highness?”

“Yes,” Zach says almost definitively. They watch each other and the silence stretches an uncomfortable length of time. “Did you say something about a wedding?” Zach prompts.

“Your wedding! There is so much to do!” the falcon says, flapping its wings excitedly and hopping out into the main room, where he takes flight and lands beside the door. How he pushes two heavy, oaken doors open is a mystery—he must weigh no more than six pounds—but he does. Zach follows and notices that, somewhere, music is playing. It’s kind of a jaunty tune and the falcon, if Zach is not mistaken, has started dancing. And singing.

He is not mistaken, oh God.

_A wedding is a happy time, for friends and family_  
_But when the two are of royal blood, the pressure’s on, you see?_  
_From music and guests, to flowers and cake_  
_The food they eat and the vows they make_  
_So much to do, so much at stake,_  
_Who’s on the hook for the whole headache?_  
_I’ll tell you, friend, it’s me!_

Zach gapes unattractively as he is nearly bowled over by a procession of servants that suddenly flood the room. Some carry samples of place settings, others large parchments with building plans for a wedding pavilion, still others have fabric samples and seating charts. All of these are presented to the falcon, decided on, and their bearers twirl out of the room seconds later. Zach’s head spins, and it’s only the first verse.

The bird continues singing even though he is clearly fully engaged in everything going on in the room, moving through a dizzying quantity of tasks quickly and efficiently.

_There is much to do!_  
_So much to do!_

“Much to doooo!” the servants sing as backup. As the falcon counts things off on its primary feathers, other members of the household parade through adding their own ideas.

_Book the hall by nine._  
_Get the bride in line._  
_Favors—is there time?_  
_Is there enough wine?_  
_So much to do!_

There follows a surprisingly well-coordinated production number as servants, their apprentices, and, Zach presumes, palace courtiers, dance in and out of the room to consult with the falcon. At one point, a tailor takes all of Zach’s measurements--a bit more _intimately_ than he’s used to. As the music hits the end of the bridge, the bird rises above them all and continues.

_There is much to do_  
_(So much to do!)_  
_I’ve got much to do!_  
_(He’s always got so much to do!)_  
_When things get het up_  
_Who you think’s gonna step up?_

_The duty’s mine_  
_I sure don’t mind_  
_All will fall in line_  
_By tonight’s deadline_  
_(Tercel’s time to shiiiiine!)_

_SO MUCH TO DO!_

As the number comes to a sudden halt, all the people file out, having apparently received the falcon’s instructions by means of musical interlude. Zach stands there, open-mouthed and staring. “What the hell just happened?”

Tercel brushes imaginary dust from his feathers with a self-satisfied air. “That’s the way you get things done around here. Now—there is just the matter of a visit to your bride to convince her to come quietly to the altar.”

“Wait, what?”

\----

“And why am I supposed to get married again?” Zach asks Tercel. They are walking—still walking—through the vast palace that is apparently at the heart of the capital city of a country called Invidia. “You know, so it’s fresh in my memory?” he adds, realizing he should try to pretend he knows who he is.

Tercel gives him a dark look—or it could be a regular look, it’s hard to tell with falcons—and explains the situation. “Your father, the king, in his endless quest to one-up the king of Freedonia, has alighted upon a scheme to double the size of the lands controlled by him by marrying you to the princess of Concordia. The princess comes of age tomorrow. If she is married before then, her husband controls all her lands as well.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She becomes queen and rules in her own right.”

“So why would she want to marry me?”

“She doesn’t, it is why she is imprisoned in the highest tower in the palace.”

“And when has that strategy ever worked for anybody?”

Tercel stops walking. “It worked for the king of Freedonia when he was a young princeling.”

“Jesus, what kind of a society is this anyway?”

Tercel shrugs. “It’s tradition.”

“It’s a horrible tradition. Why do we care what the Freedonian king thinks about it?”

“With the riches—and armies—of Concordia at his command, your father can expect to win any future conflict against Freedonia that may come up.”

“Or that he may start, I suppose. I’m beginning to get the picture.” They walk some more. “So why take it out on this particular princess?”

“She was betrothed to the Freedonian crown prince. It’s a perfectly diabolical plan, and it was all your idea.”

Zach has a revelation that makes his stomach hurt. “Hey, wait a minute, am I the villain in this story?”

Tercel stares at him as if he’d been speaking in a foreign language. “It’s politics,” he replies, as if it explained it all.

“This day just gets better and better,” Zach says darkly. He hated being typecast. “Well, it certainly explain my wardrobe,” he mutters to himself.

They cross through yet another garden. “So this Freedonian prince—is he likely to, uh, want revenge?” Zach asks.

“Oh yes, he is the pride of Freedonia, the nation’s favorite son. He’s also their greatest warrior. An attempt to rescue the princess is almost certainly in the offing, which is another reason for our haste in the wedding preparations.”

“Naturally.”

At last they come to a door in the wall of a tall tower at the edge of the palace; beyond the tall walls, Zach can hear the crashing of sea waves. There are two men roughly the size of a small cottage dtanding guard outside. One of them opens the door to reveal a tall, stone staircase rising within. “She’s up there?” Zach asks.

“Yes, Highness.”

“Well, let’s get it over with.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to wear a helmet this time?”

“Funny.”

By the time they reach the top of the stairs, Zach is winded. “Holy crap, my quads are killing me,” he pants as he bends forward, hands on his knees as he catches his breath.

Tercel, who has flown the entire way, rearranges his feathers with mild disapproval. They are in a small antechamber, at the end of which is a thick wooden door. It has two even larger soldiers guarding it, who snap to attention the moment they spot Zach. Beyond the door, Zach could swear he hears voices singing.

“She’s in there?” Zach asks.

“As I have said,” Tercel responds.

Zach takes a deep breath. “After you?”

One of the soldiers opens the door and the two of them and Tercel precede Zach into the room. It’s a large space, bright and airy, comfortably appointed with couches and cushions. As the door opens, Zach is now certain someone’s singing in there, as it only gets louder. He soon sees the source of it: several small, blue and white birds flit about the room, singing their little hearts out to a slender young woman who stands staring out of one of the large casements, a sea breeze lifting her hair gently.

_Look on the bright side!_  
_We’re on the right side!_  
_It’s a sunny day,_  
_There’s time to play!_

_Princess look!_  
_It’s a lovely day_  
_The sky is bright,_ _our hearts are full_  
_It’s a lovely day!_

As they sing, it becomes clear to Zach there are dozens of them, flying in and out of the room. Some of them are grasping tiny flowers, which they attempt to weave into the young woman’s hair. “Enough!” she finally says when one of them tugs too hard on a raven lock. “Cut it out!” she waves her hands about her head, warding the small creatures off, and turns around.

She stops short when she sees she is no longer alone; large, expressive brown eyes regard the guards warily. She wears a simple yellow gown which compliments her dusky skin perfectly; her long hair flows freely over her shoulders, though it is now dripping with small, white flowers. There is something familiar about the shape of her chin, the tilt of her head, the set of her mouth.

“Zoë?” Zach says, stepping forward.

The annoyed expression on her face relaxes as she recognizes him. “Zach?”

“Highness?” Tercel says, glancing from one to the other of them with consternation.

Zach realizes suddenly he may have made a colossal error—who’s to say his name is even Zach here, and according to Tercel, the princess knocked him over the head just the night before. He clears his throat. “I believe I would like to discuss plans for our wedding with my betrothed. Alone,” he pronounces loudly. Tercel looks about to protest when Zach raises a hand to stay him. “Leave us.”

“Very well, my lord, but we will be just on the other side of the door should you require it.” The falcon and two guards leave reluctantly.

Zach turns back around and Zoë rushes toward him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh my God,” she says into his neck. “I can’t believe it’s you!”

“Neither can I,” Zach says, holding her so close he can feel her heart fluttering against his chest. “When I woke up in this nightmare, I thought I was alone. I’m so happy to see you. I mean, I’m not happy you’re stuck here too, but—“

“I know what you mean.”

They part, holding onto each other’s hands. “I’m happy to see you too,” she says, smiling up at him. Her eyes drift down to take in his clothes. “Though I dunno about this Macbeth look you’re sporting, it’s too emo, even for you.”

“Fashion’s the least of my problems, there’s a backstory.” They walk over to a nearby couch and he fills her in as quickly as he can.

“So you’re the asshole who’s locked me up in here? Thanks a lot!” she says, smacking his arm.

“It wasn’t me!”

“And I mean, what kind of law makes it so a woman has to give up her birthright to her husband? I mean what the hell, Zach? Way to be a feminist ally, man!”

“Yes, the sociopolitical situation in this godforsaken place is the most screwed up thing about it,” he says dryly. “ _Have you noticed that we are cartoons_?!?”

“Oh. Yeah. That.”

“Yeah, _that_. Not to mention I have no idea how we got here. I can’t even remember what I did last night.”

Zoë scratches her head. “Neither can I. What’s the last thing you do remember?”

Zach grimaces. “Chris! Oh my God, we were supposed to meet with the wedding planner this morning, I nearly forgot! He’s gonna be so mad.”

“Why?”

“I tld him I didn’t want a big wedding, that we should just elope to Vegas. God, if he shows up and I’m not there—“ Zach thought of Chris waking up to find Zach’s side of the bed empty and felt a pang. “He’s going to think I left, that I got cold feet or something.”

“He’ll probably be worried sick, Z, don’t you think?”

Zach thinks of their last argument—the one right after Chris told Zach about the meeting with the planner—and hopes she’s right. Chris had looked so hurt when Zach had suggested Vegas. “I think he’d see all this pomp and circumstance, with me at the center of it, and be justifiably pissed.”

The door opens, interrupting them, and Tercel re-enters the room, looking ready for a fight. Zach suspects he expected to find one or the other of them on the floor, battered and bloodied. “Your Highnesses, it is getting late, and we really must be getting on with things,” he calls across the room. “Is the Princess ready to go along?”

Zoë looks at Zach. “What do you think?” she says. “What can it hurt to play along for a little while?”

“But Chris—“

“Isn’t here,” she points out gently. “Look, this is the kind of place where birds talk and people imprison other people in tall towers, I think we need to fake it a little while longer, Zach. Play it safe until we know the lay of the land.”

“But I can’t,” he says. “It’s wrong in so many ways, not the least of which is I’m in love with someone else.” He stands and faces Tercel.

“We’re waiting, my lord,” the bird says impatiently. “Do you know how long it takes to fashion a wedding gown?”

“You can tell them not to bother. I changed my mind, I don’t want to get married!”

“What?” Tercel asks. “What will your father say?”

“I can’t think about that now, Zach replies, feeling uncomfortable. There’s a feeling welling up inside him, one he can’t explain. It brings with it a level of discomfort not unlike trying to stop a sneeze, or a cough—thoroughly unpleasant. It bubbles to the surface, and he knows like he knows his own name that he simply has to express it—in verse. And not just any type of verse, mind you, in a rap. He instantly regrets having seen _Hamilton_ —twice—as he begins:

_I don’t know how to break this to you_  
_I have to say it true_  
_I can’t believe I’m singing it_  
_I guess that I’m just winging it_  
_I’m no good at rhymes or couplets_  
_I only just got here, and I’m sweatin’ bullets_  
_But before I let this plot digress_  
_There’s something I think I must address_  
_I don’t know how the news will land_  
_Call me naïve to show my hand_  
_And these people around here might be prudes_  
_But actually, I’m into –_

Zoë, obviously disapproving of what he’s saying—or more likely how badly he’s doing it—interrupts, jumping to her feet and pulling him aside to sing,

_Zach, my friend_  
_I know you tend_  
_To be both forthright and true._  
_And while I admire_  
_This entire misfire,_  
_I can’t let it continue!_

_If you pause_  
_In your denouements_  
_You’ll agree with my advice._  
_Until we figure out_  
_Just how to wiggle out_  
_Of this mess we’re in, don’t roll those dice._

_Be quiet, play along_  
_Even though I know you think it’s wrong._  
_Be politic, be wise_  
_Until we know if we can trust these guys!_

She glances surreptitiously over at Tercel, who is beginning to look even more grumpy than usual.

Zach understands what she’s saying, but he had sworn to himself when he came out that he would never hide who he was again. And while he appreciates Zoë’s point of view, he can’t in good conscience marry someone he doesn’t love. He has to make sure he’s understood, before they both do something they’ll regret.

_Zo, you’re a pal, and I get where you’re coming from_  
_But the heart wants what it wants and mine beats to a different drum._  
_I’ve known this since my childhood_  
_Couldn’t say it then, now I’m a man, I should and would_  
_Tell everyone my truth, it might get me in trouble_  
_But I gotta get it off my chest on the double_  
_Before we make a mistake at the end of this day_  
_They have to know I’m—_

Zoë shuts him up with a hand to his mouth and sings on,

_I know your chest needs to be unburdened_  
_But think, idiot, before you ruin_  
_Any chance we have of getting out of this place._  
_If you think I’m lyin’ take a look at that staircase!_  
_This tower’s built on a cliff, it’s steep,_  
_I think there’s only two ways out of this keep_  
_In a plain pine box or a wedding carriage._  
_I know I’m not who you want when you think marriage_  
_But—_

_Be quiet, play along_  
_Even though we both know we’re wrong_  
_For each other._  
_You’re like my brother_  
_So follow my lead until we find another_

“Way,” she speaks quietly after the music stops and lowers her hand. “We’ll get out of this, but we have to do it together, all right?”

He nods, seeing how right she is. “I hope you’re right,” he says.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Highness? You were saying?” Tercel prompts.

“Sorry,” Zach says, clearing his throat. “Bit of cold feet, that’s all.” He holds his hand out to her, and Zoë takes it. He leads her to the door. “The princess and I are quite ready. The wedding can take place as planned.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris learns that being Prince Charming ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Hasn’t he starred in this movie before?

He’s not sure if it’s the bright sunshine on his face or the incessant nudging that does it, but Chris wakes with a loud protest already on his lips. “Noah, quit it!”

A soft nicker, followed by another nudge, makes him open his eyes. A large muzzle blocks his vision and his brain supplies the word he’s looking for: “Horse?”

Another nicker, low as a chuckle, and the creature backs away. Chris rolls over onto his back and blinks at it incredulously. “What the hell?” He sits up and instantly regrets it, wincing as his head throbs. “Ow.” He cradles his aching skull in his hands a few moments before daring to open his eyes once more, and what he sees makes him wish he’d kept them closed.

Everything is brightly-colored and shiny, from the sky, to the rolling meadow he’s apparently spent the night in, to the far-off mountains. It all seems strangely flat as well—or maybe it’s the quality of the sunlight. Butterflies flit, bees buzz, and birds fly, and underneath it all is a low-key murmur of sound that reminds him of something he can’t immediately place. After a moment, he recognizes it—it’s a song.

 _It’s a lovely day!_  
_The weather’s fine, it’s no bull_  
_If it were raining_  
_We’d still be cheerful_  
_It’s a lovely day!_

Chris looks around to try to pinpoint the source, as it seems to be all around him—and realizes it’s the birds. They sing in high, sweet voices as they soar and swoop around each other playfully.

 _Hello Mr. Sun_  
_Up in the sky so bright_  
_So nice to see you there_  
_Something-something rhymes with bright_  
_IT’S A LOVELY DAY!_

Their song fades as they move on, but as they do, reality finally hits. “What is this, some kind of a cartoon?” Chris asks, incredulous. A sound at his shoulder makes him look around; the horse that woke him stands behind him, ears cocked at different angles as it stares at him intently. “ _Is_ it a cartoon?” Chris repeats.

The horse nods.

“And you can understand me?” It nods again. “Of course you can. Can you speak?” The horse shakes its head in the negative, its ears flopping comically. “But the birds can. That’s pretty screwed up.” The horse’s face contorts itself into a fair representation of human grouchiness as it blows air through its lips. “I feel you, man.”

Chris looks around again; though everything seems more simplistically rendered, it doesn’t lack for texture or richness. It’s a weird juxtaposition, but soon his vision adjusts. He stands up, looks down on himself. He feels fine, but when he moves it’s as if his body mass has shifted considerably. His hips are narrower, his legs shorter, and his shoulders— “Why won’t my arms go down?” he wonders aloud as he drops his hands to his sides; they don’t skim his hips like they should and just sort of _hang there_. He runs his hands over his chest and realizes it’s noticeably larger than usual, and from the shadow he’s casting on the grass, he’s got the proportions of an inverted pyramid. He wishes he had a mirror so he could see just what kind of freak show he’s dealing with here. His clothes, at least, seem comfortable—some sort of dark velveteen pants, soft, slouchy boots, and a rich blue doublet with golden piping. A long forelock of golden blond hair obstructs his vision, and he cannot seem to keep it from falling down. He’s reminded, unpleasantly, of the long hair he’d had to sport for _Into the Woods_ and then realizes he must look ridiculous.

The horse blows air from its nostrils and nudges Chris once more, this time in the shoulder, propelling him forward. The scabbard he’s wearing gets caught up in his legs and he nearly falls. “Hey, come on, quit it, horse.”

It snorts and pushes him once more, adopting a comically urgent expression, leaving Chris to wonder what it wants. “What are you in such a hurry for? Are you late for something?”

The horse nods vigorously, nuzzles at Chris’s hand, and tosses his head, so that Chris’s hand lands on his bridle. “You want me to ride you,” Chris guesses.

With a loud whinny, the horse paws at the ground, and Chris gets the idea. “All right then,” Chris says, resting a hand on the saddle. It’s been a while since he’s really ridden—the horse they’d given him on _Into the Woods_ responded more to its trainer than to him—and he hopes he hasn’t forgotten anything. He nearly overbalances when he lifts a foot to the stirrup, and once more his scabbard gets in the way of his over-large feet. “What the hell is this thing even here for?” he mutters, unbolting it from his hips.

“One might ask the same of you,” a voice responds.

Alarmed, Chris looks around to see who has spoken. No one is around, and the sky is mercifully bird-free. “Am I hearing voices now, in addition to having lost all touch with reality, then? Fuck my actual life.” He finds a leather strap on the saddle and thinks it might be a handy way to strap the scabbard down.

“Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced,” the voice says.

“I don’t know that quoting Kierkegaard is really a way to go here,” Chris responds testily before he realizes, in quick succession, that a.) the voice is very near, b.) it is, in fact, coming from the scabbard, and c.) it reminds him, just a little, of Rowan Atkinson.

“Hey!” He grasps the scabbard in his left hand and the hilt of the sword in his right, pulling it free. When he examines it closely he sees that the metallic piece beneath the cross-guard has been fashioned to resemble a tiny human face. He’s beginning to feel as if he really is losing it when he says, with just a touch of hysteria, “Do you talk too?”

“Only when proper motivation strikes, as it has,” it replies. Its face is surprisingly emotive for something fashioned out of metal. “Who the hell are you anyway? You’re not Prince Charmant, that much is certain.”

“Chris,” Chris answers, without thought to pause or dissemble. “”Who are you?”

“I am Roland the Indelible,” it replies in a manner that makes it clear he’s used to getting an impressed reaction.

Chris stares at him blankly. “And who’s Charmant?”

“He’s the heir to the throne of Freedonia, our nation’s greatest warrior, and you’re clearly not him, so what’re you doing wearing his face? What are you, a wizard?”

“What? No, I just woke up here a few minutes ago.”

“Are you certain?”

“I mean, I think I would know?” He frowned. “How do you know I’m not him? Charmant, I mean.”

“I am a magical sword, I know all,” Roland replies with an imperious expression. “Perhaps you consumed a charmed draught?”

Chris shook his head. “No charmed draughts.”

“Did you make a wish, then? It wouldn’t be the first time _that’s_ cocked everything up, believe you me.”

Chris’s face gets hot all of a sudden as he swallows, hard. “A, uh, a wish?”

Roland narrows his eyes. “Yeeesss,” he prompts slowly. “A wish. Did you touch a charmed cup, throw a coin in a fountain, crack open a magical cookie, catch a leprechaun, free a djinn, see a shooting star, procure a magic feather, kiss a frog—“

Chris frowns, recalling the night before in perfect detail. He had had dinner with Zach and Zoë, and she’d been avidly grilling them for wedding details. Chris had appreciated her giddy enthusiasm, but Zach had made snide comments the entire evening. Chris’s stomach drops as he remembers the huge fight they had the moment they got home.

_“Dammit Zach,” he’d said, “this is important to me!”_

_“But that’s what I mean, I don't understand why.” His tone was humored, condescending even, and it hurt._

_“Can't you just accept that it is?” Chris had said, his voice breaking with emotion he felt might choke him._ Don't you care? _he didn't say._

_“Come on, you used to make fun of our friends’ over-the-top weddings all the time—as much as I ever did...” Zach had gone on, still not picking up on the fact Chris was upset, which was almost as inexcusable. “Life is not a fairy tale, Chris, and a wedding isn’t a happy ending, no matter how much you want to pretend it is.”_

_“I know that.”_

_“Do you? Really?”_

_Chris had turned around and left, unwilling to escalate it further and frankly afraid he might say something he’d regret. Out in his garden, he'd sat on the sole bench there, staring up at whatever stars were visible when he had his great revelation. “I want the fairy tale,” he’d admitted aloud, just as a meteor or whatever had streaked across the night sky far above._

_He wanted the fairy tale, he just wasn't comfortable admitting why._

“I think a shooting star may have been involved,” he admits to the sword.

Roland looks put out but says nothing for a moment. “At least that mystery's solved then,” it finally says and Chris suspects if it had hands it would be pinching the bridge of its nose as if it had a migraine. “Now all we have to do is figure out why you, why here, and why now.”

“I may have wished for a fairy tale wedding.”

“This gets better and better.”

“I mean, I didn’t think it would bring me here.”

“Of course you did, you believed in the wish, didn’t you?”

Chris recalls the feeling of surety in his heart as he’d looked at the shooting star, the way it felt as if his heart had swelled with it. “Yes,” he admits.

“It was that fleeting moment of true faith that did it. No one ever _thinks_ they’re going to get what they wished for when they wish, but if they _believe_ , that’s why it works.”

“Seems contradictory.”

“Not if you think about it hard enough.” The horse makes an impatient noise and stamps its front hooves. “Yes, Steed, you’re right. We’ve dawdled enough, it’s time we were on our way.”

“On our way? Where?”

“To rescue the Princess of Concordia, your bride.”

Chris swallows. “My _bride_?”

“ _Charmant’s_ bride, yes. We were on our way to bring her back when you arrived, you see. She’s been kidnapped by the Dark Prince Erebos of Invidia.”

“By who?” Chris was beginning to wish he had a _Playbill_ or something.

“Your nemesis. _Charmant’s_ nemesis—sorry. I guess you’ve inherited him now you’re here.”

“But I mean why? Why must I have a nemesis? Isn't that way too strong a word? What about rival? That sounds lots better to me. Or I know: _opponent._ ”

“What difference does it make? They're just words.”

“But words _matter_ , don’t you see? They offer nuance—clarity. Nemesis, jeez.”

“Fine, fine, he’s your opponent, then. One that’s sworn to kill you on more than one occasion, and whose latest foray into _friendly competition_ has been to abduct your affianced in order to marry her and steal her lands and property. Very sportsmanlike.”

Chris bites his lip, considering for the first time the facts as they are. “Wow, he does kinda sound like an asshole, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. Now—mount up, we need to get there to stop it all by midnight, and this day’s not getting any younger.”

Chris climbs up onto the horse and settles in. He barely touches the animal’s flanks with his boots before it’s taken off at a brisk trot. The horse had been eager to get going, so they cover ground fairly quickly.

“So what did I—I mean Charmant—what did he do to gain a nemesis anyway?” Chris asks as they make their way along a wooded ridge. The thought that someone could think him an enemy—or rather the person whose body he seems to be stuck in—is frankly unsettling. He’s been chewing at his lips for the last hour trying to reconcile it, but just can’t quite get his mind around it.

“Just bested the Dark Prince at literally everything in Prince school. Sword fighting, jousting, wrestling, epic poetry, feats of strength. Competitive yodeling.”

“Now you're just making stuff up.”

“You haven't been here long enough yet to get it, but trust me, it comes in useful. They did start out as friends when they were boys, but Invidia and Freedonia have been at odds for so long, the relationship was bound to fall apart. And after this latest transgression—I fear war will be upon us before long.”

“War? That’s so serious, jeez. So why am I doing riding over the border into enemy territory, then? That doesn’t seem like a very sound strategy to me. Shouldn’t we, like, get a bunch of soldiers to come with us?”

“I think you underestimate the effectiveness of an annoyed and armed Charmant.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not him. I'm no fighter.”

“I suppose you're about to tell me you're a _lover_?” Roland says, voice dripping with sarcasm

“I'm an actor.”

“Gods, we're dead.”

Chris makes a small sound of frustration and that ends the conversation for the moment. The horse walks on until they crest the next hill, where Chris reins him in to admire the view.

Below them in a valley bisected by a river shining in the bright sunlight, is a mid-sized, picturesque town. From this distance, it seems almost unreal, with its tidy high street and central square, a small church at one end and what looks like a small garrison set up near a stone bridge crossing the river. As they get closer, Chris notices how tall the town’s walls are, and that there are only two roads that lead in and out, one running north and south, the other east and west. Each one enters the town through formidable-looking gates that appear to be well-guarded.

“This place seems well-fortified,” Chris observes.

“It should be, the river represents the border between Freedonia and Invidia. These people must remain vigilant in the face of ongoing hostilities.”

“Oh, that's a bummer.”

“Quite.”

“Is that where we're going?”

“It's the only river crossing for twenty leagues.”

“Ah,” Chris replied, wondering how much a league was supposed to be. His thoughts are interrupted by the ear-splitting sound of a horn blowing from atop one of the walls. A shout goes up from the town.

“The Prince!” they're yelling. “Prince Charmant is coming!”

Within the town, the call goes out and soon people are streaming out of the gates, their destination clear: they mean to meet him on his way to the town. “So much for keeping a low profile and getting this over with quickly,” Chris mutters.

“Have you seen yourself?” the sword says. “You couldn't keep a low profile if you were an earthworm. You’re their crown prince, they’re going to want to celebrate your being here.”

“But I’m not him, though, and they’re bound to figure that out as soon as they see me.”

“I thought you said you were an actor?”

“What’s that got to do with it? Acting a role is completely different to impersonating someone.”

“What has it got to do with it?” Roland asks, suddenly vibrating. Chris removes his hand from the scabbard as it begins to move—he doesn’t want to be cut. He is vaguely aware that a jaunty tune surrounds them, though he sees no musicians or instruments.

“Listen to me!” Roland adds, bursting from the scabbard and hanging in the air before Chris and his not-at-all freaked out horse. It begins to sing:

 _“Fake it ‘til you make it_  
_That’s my advice, so take it._  
 _When life hands you a test,_  
 _There’s no need to be stressed!_  
 _Just_  
 _Fake it, fake it, fake it!_  
 _Make it, make it, make it!_

As he sings, Roland swings himself around precipitously, and Chris finds himself ducking his sharpened edges more than once. He’s also aware the music has attracted a number of woodland creatures from out of nowhere. A deer, some rabbits, a pair of foxes, and an actual bear have arrived and are smelling the air with curiosity as the sword continues,

 _In revolutionary times, or so it went,_  
_The founding fathers had to form a government_  
_And when they asked him if he would be king_  
_Washington said, “That ain’t my thing!_  
_Though I’ll be your prez and name a cabinet.”_  
_Our republic is new, George, how you gonna do it?_  
_And with a smirk, he said, “I don’t have to prove it,_  
_I’ll”_

At this point, one of the foxes, who has somehow arranged some spider webs into a fair approximation of George Washington’s powdered wig, sings the chorus,

 _Fake it ‘til you make it_  
_That’s my advice, so take it._  
_When life hands you a test,_  
_There’s no need to be stressed!_  
_Just_  
_Fake it, fake it, fake it!_  
_Make it, make it, make it!_

“I don’t think that’s how it happened,” Chris points out to Roland, who ignores him and carries on,

 _When elected, Abe Lincoln was already tired_  
_Of the social upheaval in which the country was mired._  
_He knew slavery was wrong,_  
_a threat to liberty and before long_  
_his lack of military skills would surely get him fired._  
_Fort Sumter the South attacked,_  
_Time was running out, he had to act,_  
_so he said,_

“You guys are really into American History, wow,” Chris says as the refrain is sung, this time by a break dancing bear in a stovepipe hat,

 _Fake it ‘til you make it_  
_That’s my advice, so take it._  
_When life hands you a test,_  
_There’s no need to be stressed!_  
_Just_  
_Fake it, fake it, fake it!_  
_Make it, make it, make it!_

There are scores of animals around now, most dressed in period clothing, including a badger in a hoop skirt who he thinks is supposed to be Mary Todd Lincoln. But Chris is more distracted by the fact the procession of townspeople seems to have gotten even closer. He’s running out of time. Ridiculously, he begins to sing, the verses not very good at all, but it seems to alleviate his stress for the moment, and at least he is in tune as he jumps from the horse and begins to sing,

 _In this lunatic land I’m pretty much caught._  
_Don’t know how it happened, the situation is fraught._  
_A Princess in trouble, Charmant the one who can save her_  
_But he’s out, there’s just me, thing couldn’t be graver_  
_(Guess I should’ve given that wish more forethought)._  
_I’m an actor, I can do this, more or less with aplomb_  
_I’ll suck it up, not to worry, keep myself calm_  
_And_

 _Fake it ‘til I make it_  
_That’s your advice, I’ll take it._  
_Life’s handed me a test,_  
_There’s no time to be stressed!_  
_I’ll_  
_Fake it, fake it, fake it!_  
_Make it, make it, make it!_

By the end of the final chorus, he’s danced with the bear—now dressed in princess drag—and winds up standing amongst a horde of woodland creatures showing jazz hands, waving Roland high above his head.

“Well done, now you’re getting it!” Roland praises him.

“Prince Charmant! Prince Charmant!”

The townspeople have by this point arrived, and are gathered at the base of the hill. Chris lowers his arms and re-sheaths Roland, then quickly mounts his horse to ride out to meet them. The crowd parts around them as they pass, a collective and very audible sigh going up.

Chris's horse holds his head high, practically grinning as he prances through the crowd, horseshoes clanging on the cobbles in the road as he goes. “Cut it out Steed, ya big ham,” Chris mutters, but the horse tosses his head and whinnies instead, resulting in a round of ecstatic cheers. Chris smiles as winningly as he knows how, and the people in the road move to the side as they pass, falling in behind to accompany their prince into town.

It's not much farther to the town's gate, where additional townsfolk have gathered. They lead him to a dais in the middle of the town square, where town dignitaries who look as if they’ve been torn from their lunches are lined up, puffing up their chests and readying themselves to make proclamations. As Chris dismounts, a group of pretty young women approaches to place a flower crown on his head; they smile shyly and blush prettily, then move on to do the same for the horse, who nudges them flirtatiously. There is much giggling.

Chris walks up the steps of the dais and is introduced to the mayor and his council, as well as the captain of the town’s garrison. He clasps their hands like they’re old friends, each one of them puffing up their chests as soon as he’s moved on. When he gets to the end of the line, he realizes they’re all looking at him expectantly, wanting to hear him speak. Chris stares at them, and smiles, and realizes his mind has gone completely blank.

 _Fake it, fake it, fake it,_ he mutters under his breath. _Make it, make it, make it._

“Greetings, citizens!” he says in loud, ringing tones. He is positive he sounds like a douche. “It is I, your prince!”

A swoon goes through the crowd like a wave, men and women alike, all of them hanging on his every word.

“I am most pleased with the greeting you have shown me, this is surely the finest town in the land, its people the kindest and most welcoming.”

There follows a paroxysm of hometown pride so intense the moans of delight border on the obscene.

“I am merely passing through your fine town, on a mission of great importance—“

 _“Passing through? He's only passing through?”_ A collective sigh of disappointment comes from the townspeople.

“It is a matter of some delicacy, and while I would much rather tarry here a while, I must be on my way immediately.”

“Surely you can stay a little while? We can provide supplies for your journey,” the mayor says. “You must at least stay a little while to rest. And take luncheon,” he goes on.

“Lunch?” At the mention of food, Chris’s stomach rumbles, and he’s reminded he hasn’t eaten at all today. “I mean, I suppose I could stay for a little while.”

“So much for not wanting to blow your cover,” Roland says in a stage whisper.

“Hey, it’s a blood sugar thing, OK?” Chris says and lets them lead him away.

The inn they take him to is on the edge of the square and reminds him of the pub he used to go to when he spent a year in college abroad in England: all dark woods and brass hardware. Rich aromas of beer and roasting meats are heavy in the air. He is shown to a room just off the inn's taproom, which affords him privacy so he can rest. There’s a window in it that overlooks the town square, across which he can see his horse being watered and otherwise tended to by a stable boy, a smiling young woman feeding the animal apples from her hand.

It takes no time at all for the innkeeper to return, with his staff behind him bearing platters of food for Chris to enjoy. A pretty young woman—Chris guesses she’s the innkeeper’s daughter—follows behind with a large pewter pitcher filled with ale. She’s dressed about as stereotypically as can be expected, her loose-fitting blouse very low cut to expose an ample bosom cantilevered up by the tightly laced bodice of the dress she wears over it. He recognizes her now as one of the flower crown-wielding women from earlier, and smiles in recognition. She smiles and bats her eyes as she pours him a mug of the beer, her hands lingering on his shoulder as she leans forward to hand him a napkin.

“Thank you,” he says, taking it from her before she’s had a chance to lay it in his lap for him.

“Yes, Highness. Did you want anything else?” she asks, leaning even closer; she smells like honeysuckles.

“No, I think I’m good,” he says, eyeing up the roasted meats and vegetables in front of him. Everything looks and smells wonderful; his stomach rumbles again.

“Are you sure?” She bites her lip and bends over him even closer.

Chris thinks if she bends over any more he’d be able to see all the way down to her panties. He pops a roasted potato into his mouth. “Pretty sure.”

She flounces out of the room with her father, each of them wearing expressions of disappointment.

“She was very pretty,” Roland observes; Chris had propped him up on the bench beside him, his hilt leaning against a corner of the wall. “Did you not wish to dally a while with her?”

“Isn’t Charmant supposed to be engaged?” Chris points out.

“He is, but you’re not him. Why do you care to protect his reputation?”

Chris chews his lip a moment before answering, “I’m engaged too.”

“Are you? Well then, I apologize for suggesting you be unfaithful. Is she the reason you made the wish that brought you here?”

“My fiancé’s a he. Does that shock you?”

Roland looks like he would shrug if he could. “Love wears many faces, does it not?”

“Yeah, love.” Chris sighs.

“That is not the sound of a man besotted. You sound unhappy about it.”

“It’s complicated.” Chris says, and is suddenly no longer hungry. He stares out the window and thinks about the last 24 hours—hell, the last six months. Ever since Chris proposed, Zach's attitude toward their wedding has been disdainful at most, dismissive at least. When pressed, he shrugs and claims to be tired, or that Chris is so much better at planning things than he, and Chris can’t help but take it personally. But it’s not just the wedding plans Chris fears most. That is a fear he’s never dared voice to anyone, not even Katie.

He can’t understand why—maybe he’s just exhausted—but suddenly he wants to tell Roland all about it. Suddenly the lights in the room dim, though Chris can feel the candlelight on his face, and he opens his mouth as a swell of music rises from nowhere,

 _The day we met at an audition for a role on television_  
_He was cast, I was not, but he offered this provision:_  
_“Here’s my number, give a call, I think I have a premonition_  
_We’ll be friends, you and I. (Can you recommend a physician?)”_

 _He was new in town and all his friends still lived back east, he said._  
_I was young, unproven, eager, often too inside my head._  
_We helped each other learn our craft, our goal to get ahead._  
_(And in case you hadn’t guessed it yet, I wound up in his bed)_

Chris rises and moves over to the window; out in the square, the people of the town have resumed going about their business. He spots the innkeeper’s daughter flirting with the stable boy who’d taken care of Charmant’s horse. It reminds him of him and Zach, in the early days, and he smiles as he sings,

 _I was in love_  
_He said he loved me_  
_Fit hand-in-glove_  
_We were a pair_

 _Crazy in love_  
_So young and carefree_  
_I gave my love_  
_I gave it freely_

 _Time went on, like it does, our heads muddled with career_  
_Endless auditions, callbacks, and showcases, you get the idea._  
_It was a slog, I did things at which anyone might sneer_  
_(Who are we kidding, I was winning no awards courting Princess Mia)_

 _I was riding high on my success, making goal after goal._  
_Zach, too, had booked a TV gig, our lives were on a roll._  
_But as happens all too often, we were destined for a fall_  
_“Not you, it’s me,” he said, “I need my space, to focus on a new role.”_

Chris turns away from the window and stares into the middle distance as he goes on,

 _I was in love_  
_But then he left me_  
_The stars above_  
_They dimmed for me_

 _He took his love_  
_Away forever_  
_I thought that love_  
_Was done for me_

Chris starts pacing the room, unable to keep still; his hands gesture expressively as he goes on,

 _So I buckled down, I really did, got lost inside my work,_  
_So career-obsessed my family, well they thought I was a jerk._  
_It’s easy to hide your pain in toil, pass it off as a character quirk_  
_Until your ex recommends you for the role of Captain Kirk._

 _Long story short, it was like the years between had fallen right away._  
_He had matured, he said, regretted what he’d done that fateful day._  
_And while I’m happy now to have him back I’ve become a trite cliché:_  
_I won’t believe his love is real until we have our wedding day_

As his song comes to an end, he finds himself seated in the same spot as before.

 _Heartsick from love_  
_My doubts undid me_  
_I need his love_  
_Too much you see_

 _I wished for love_  
_Like in a story_  
_The stars above_  
_They heard my plea_

_Now here am I  
In someone else’s story…_

The music ends abruptly as he hits a rising note on the last syllable, and he turns to face Roland with eyes bright from unshed tears. “And I don’t know why.”

“Yet.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t know why _yet_. The stars’ ways are not always so obvious, but you are here for a reason, Chris, and it will become clear soon enough.”

“You really think so?”

“I’m a talking sword—I’ve been around the block a few times.”

\----

“So tell me, Roland, what’s the plan once we get there?”

It’s a couple of hours later, they’ve taken their leave of the town, and have long since crossed the border into Invidia. Chris finds the landscape—unexpectedly—just as pleasant as in Freedonia. He doesn’t know why he expected to find swamplands and darkness here.

“We’re traveling alone—is there some secret way into the palace Charmant expected to exploit? How are we getting the princess out safely? I just want to be prepared.”

Roland’s eyes point at the sky. “Weeeeellll, there isn’t a plan per se.”

“Does he have allies in the city, then? Or at the palace? Or a spy network waiting to help out?”

“He usually, uh, just goes in there with me drawn, you know, riding Steed, and, you know… he… saves the day.”

Chris pulls the sword closer to him and stares it in the eyes. “He just saves the day? Through what—the force of his personality? Can’t you be more specific?”

Roland looks like he’d like to, but gives up. “Not without arms.”

“It’s suicide.”

“Yet it somehow always works out.”

“This has happened before?”

“The prince’s duty is to right wrongs and defend the defenseless wherever they might be, he has spent his entire life doing so. In this case, it is his lady love, and… well, if you knew how much he loved her, you would understand that he would stop at nothing. He would give his life for her, her safety is all that matters.”

“Really?”

“Indeed.”

“She’s a lucky girl.”

“Would you not do the same for your beloved?”

“Of course,” Chris says. He’s just no longer sure his beloved would do the same for him.

\----

_Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea  
To me, way hey, blow the man down_

“Are those… seagulls? Singing sea shanties?” Chris asks as he looks up into the sky.

_Now please pay attention and listen to me  
Give me some time to blow the man down_

Sure enough, a flock of seabirds glides effortlessly on columns of air far above, and their familiar song drifts down to them.

Roland glances up. “I suppose it is, yeah.”

“Are we near the ocean?” Chris asks even as they finally reach the apex of the rise they’ve been steadily climbing. He finds they are on a ridge overlooking the sea. He breathes deep the first, familiar scent of ocean air—how had he not noticed it before now? The view is spectacular, and the day is clear, and he feels like he can see a hundred miles. “Wow.”

He’s reminded of the time Zach took him to the Irish coast on a free weekend during the press tour for the first _Star Trek_. He’d taken Chris to a tiny town on the western coast, where they’d hooked up with a group of folk musicians in a pub, singing and drinking Guinness until the sun had come up again. They could find only a single room in a nearby bed and breakfast, and were forced to share a bed, still too drunk to care about what it meant. When they woke, they made love for the first time in years, and Chris had felt at the time it was like the beginning of something wonderful.

He doesn’t know what to feel now.

“The king’s palace is built on a cliff overlooking the sea. Oh look, you can see it from here,” Roland says.

Chris shields his eyes with one hand as he looks. It’s situated further down the very cliffs they are currently standing on, at the point where they jut out into the sea. The palace is immense and appears like it’s been carved out of the dark basalt of the cliffs themselves. Its towering walls absorb all the golden light of a sun that’s just beginning to set, and give off a low, burnished gleam. Sea birds fly and swoop on the updrafts caused by the crashing surf below, heedless of the imposing walls above.

“We made good time, huh?” Chris says, dropping his arm. He looks around them, standing on the edge of the cliff, the relatively featureless landscape behind them, free of trees, boulders, or other distinguishing characteristics. “There it is, just… bam. Right there, ha-ha.”

“Stately,” Roland agrees.

“I can practically see in the windows, it’s so close.”

“It did seem to sneak up on a person.”

Chris looks down on himself, and Steed, then back at the castle, once more. “Holy crap, there’s absolutely no way they haven’t already spotted us.” He wheels the horse around, intent on making for some sort of cover, but it is too late—a group of cavalry is already advancing on them, riding hard from the castle. “Aww, _man_!”

“What ho! The fight is upon us!” Roland cries, practically vibrating with excitement.

“What? No. No fight upon anyone. We go into no fight, have I not stressed how _not_ a soldier I am?”

“The enemy is nigh!” the sword says, ignoring him. His excitement has already been picked up by Steed, who stamps the ground excitedly with his front hooves.

“There’s like 50 of them and one of me!” Chris points out. “We need to retreat and come up with a strategy to get into the castle to save the princess.”

“We’ve had worse odds, now draw me. Raise me now—come, come—or we’ll never win the day.”

“We’re not going to win any day—have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

“ON TO VICTORYYYYY!!!” Roland shouts, his voice impossibly amplified despite the openness of the terrain. Steed rears back, and Chris scrambles to grip the reins with his left hand.

It’s too little too late; he slides out of the saddle and falls to the ground. There is a _THUNK_ and a searing pain in his head, and everything goes black.


End file.
